


Not With the Way You Punch

by Princessfbi



Series: Not You [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Arguing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frank's still going through some things, Hurt/Comfort, Peter's going through some things, Slight Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessfbi/pseuds/Princessfbi
Summary: "Holy shit, did I get stabbed?""You're real fucking lucky my dog likes you."





	Not With the Way You Punch

**Author's Note:**

> About three months before Civil War.

“Holy shit, did I get stabbed?”

Peter gapped at the blood stained gauze, tracing his fingers over the bandage and feeling the racing course of pain track it’s way along his side.

“You’re real fucking lucky my dog likes you,” the growled response came. Peter jumped and then yelped at the white hot agony the movement caused. Large calloused hands pushed him back down onto the mattress of a bed that was definitely not his, in a studio apartment that he definitely didn’t live in, next to a dog Aunt May would definitely never let him have. He tried to breathe but something like a brick settled over his chest and every time he tried to get air it couldn't make it's way down his throat. 

“Easy kid,” the voice said, gentler than it had been but with a pointed effort. “Don’t go climbing the walls and pulling out those stitches again. Claire will definitely kill me if I have to call her to come back.”

But the voice didn’t have the effect he was trying to go for. _Climb the walls?_ Peter didn’t remember that. But the guy had seen him do it?

It was only then that he became aware of his mask missing from his face in addition to the fact that his whole homemade suit was gone. Sweats and a hoodie had been replaced with an oversized t-shirt that smelled like gun metal and alcohol and a soft quilt.

He was such a pathetic loser! Three months and he’d already blown his cover. Oh God---

“Easy kid, easy.” A man leaned into the soft bedside table light, letting Peter see his face. A nose that had been broken too many times to ever consider to be straight, had dried blood caked inside it and along the bridge. Big, deep black eyes that were searching for soft but were like granite stared at Peter. “I had to take that mask off when I brought you here.”

“Whe…Whe…Where am I?” Peter asked, going for strong and getting a stammer instead.

“You’re at my apartment. Hell’s Kitchen.”

_Hell’s Kitchen!_

He’d only just started his patrol in Hell’s Kitchen that night.

The man’s brows furrowed into a hard line over his granite eyes. “What do you remember?”

Peter searched his mind. Nothing productive had happened for a while. Ever since he took down Uncle Ben’s murderers, he’d been stretching his legs a little in further parts of the city. Looking to fight. Looking to stop people who could do what happened to Uncle Ben to others. Looking for someone to take his anger out on.

It would’ve made Ben so ashamed.

And then he’d stumbled into a meet up in a junkyard. He dropped in unannounced. The criminals panicked. Pain. A bark.

_Bang._

Peter flinched away from the man, pressing himself further into the wall. His heart hammered in his chest as the man let him go and the dog at his side only glanced up at him.

“You shot him.” His breath hitched somewhere deep in his chest and Peter grimaced against the pain building up at his side. The man nodded.

“He was going to shoot my dog.” He ran a rough hand over the dog’s head with a deep scratch over his ears. “Max heard those guys kicking the shit out of you before I did. Charged at the guy that was squeezing the life from you.”

Peter barely felt a sting around his throat though he doubted that the bruises were completely gone. If he could see them he might be able to piece together how long he’d been at that man’s apartment. Hours? Days?

The man waited for a moment before he rolled his eyes. “Look, will you lie back down? If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it by now.”

But Peter didn’t move despite his body protesting at the tense posture he was in now. “Who are you?”

“I’m Frank and you’re welcome by the way.”

Peter almost said thank you. It was on the tip of his tongue but then he remembered the gunshot and it sound too much like the one he heard kill Ben.

“You killed someone," he said instead.

The man’s face didn’t so much as twitch with a reaction. “I've killed lots of people. That one was going to shoot my dog.”

Peter stared hard at the man, wondering if he was trying to frighten him or not. But the man simply sighed.

“If you’re not going to thank me, thank Max.” The dog in question perked up at his name and turned to Peter. The pit bull lapped at Peter's fingers as if used to having to show that he didn’t mean any harm. Peter hesitated for a moment before his fingers found their way into the short coat at the dog’s neck and scratched. Max laid his head onto Peter’s lap, accepting the gesture for what it was.

“C’mon,” Frank said, suddenly over top Peter. Peter flinched but Frank didn’t stop and shoved a pillow behind him and straightened his body out. Another pillow found it’s way onto the side Peter had a healing stab wound and he found himself leaning into it without protest. The new position did wonders for the pulsing pain across his torso.

“Better?” Frank asked, easing back into his chair. Wordlessly, Peter nodded. “Good. Now, do you realize how goddamn lucky you were?”

“I…” Peter stuttered out at the man’s sudden mood shift. “I was fine.”

“You need to knock this off right now kid. Before you get yourself killed.”

“I’m not---“ Peter started. Since when was he entitled to get a lecture from a stranger? Frank must have recognized the anger for what it was and something dark settled over his expression.

“You better think before you say another fucking thing to me, kid,” he warned with a low tone. “Because I do not actually enjoying finding a half dead twelve year old in a wannabe Avengers costume.”

“I’m fifteen and I can take care of myself.”

Frank didn’t know him. Frank didn’t know anything about him.

Frank let out a condescending snort. “Not with the way you punch, you don’t!”

“What’s wrong with the way I punch?”

“Nothing, because you aren’t going to do it again. You’re done.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

“Oh yeah? I know your face now, kid. If I want to stop you, I can.”

The threat was there, lingering in the air like a suspended bullet. Fear coiled around Peter at it. Frank did know his face. Frank would be able to find him if he got away. Frank would be able to find his school. Frank would be able to find where he lived. Frank would be able to find May.

All because he screwed up. _Again._

The familiar burn scolded the back of Peter's eyes but he clenched his jaw until it hurt. He was not going to cry. He was so sick of crying.

Frank stared at him, hard with military precision. Peter had no doubt that if he tried to leave, Frank would be able to stop him even though so far he’d done nothing but show Peter his version of kindness.

And it was only within that moment that for the first time, Peter realized, no one was looking at him with pity. Frank was angry at him and Peter was allowed to be angry back. But Frank didn't stare at him like he was made with glass even though he’d seen him practically be thrown around like he was a rag doll.

Frank had also not asked for Peter’s name and he also realized that even if he could find Peter, he wouldn’t hurt him.

Something had let loose between the two of them and neither one seemed willing to try and catch it.

“I’m not going to stop,” Peter finally said. He was expecting something akin to the earlier rage to cross Frank’s face but instead it was only something wounded like sadness.

“Someone’s not always going to be there for you when you fuck up, kid.”

Peter didn’t really know what to say to that and Frank looked like he was reining in whatever darkness that had fallen over him in those last words.

“Your clothes are on the table,” Frank finally said. “Claire… she’s uh… the nurse that patched you up... said that it looked like you had a rapid healing ability.”

Peter nodded.

“You can keep the shirt. Why don’t you get some sleep and in a few hours I’ll drive you back where you need to go.”

Max settled beside Peter and Peter found himself sinking further into the heat of the quilt. He would much rather be in his own bed but the thought of moving on his legs just yet was almost unbearable. Frank settled back into his seat and pulled up yesterday’s paper to read.

He may not trust Frank and the curls of anxiety wrapped around him at being so out of place, but Peter knew he was safe for a few hours. That despite all his hostilities, Frank would stand guard while Peter healed.

It was a new feeling but he found he was ok with that.

“Will you at least tell me what I’m doing wrong with my punches?”


End file.
